


The Scent of Honeysuckle

by Stella_by_Starlight (MissMarpleMadness)



Series: Marvel After Midnight [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Double Indemnity (1944), Double Indemnity - James M Cain, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Noir, Attempted Insurance Fraud, Did Not Get the Girl, Excessive Drinking, F/M, Femme Fatale, Feuds, Flashbacks, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, If You Think This Has A Happy Ending You Haven't Been Paying Attention, Infidelity, Insurance Fraud, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, POV First Person, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Racist Language, Period-Typical Sexism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rare Pairings, Slow To Update, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Feud, Stucky if you squint, The Three Wombats - Freeform, Tony Stark Has Daddy Issues, Unreliable Narrator, ambiguous Stucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-11-04 19:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMarpleMadness/pseuds/Stella_by_Starlight
Summary: It all began on a hot afternoon in March, when James Buchanan Barnes drove out on a routine house call to see a client about some insurance, and instead met a beautiful, lonely housewife who would much rather be a wealthy widow...-A MCU/Double Indemity AU





	1. Chapter 1

 

I don't want you to think of this as a confession. I don't like the word ‘confession’. It reminds me of too many days in church and every uncomfortable memory of that place that still clings with hooks to the core of my mind. Things like the busted-up radiator that never got the job done, so we’d be sitting there shivering throughout the sermon. It makes me remember mean, old Sister Mildred, who so strongly believed that punishment before the crime prevents the crime. It conjures up memories of the old busybody Mrs. Nirdlinger, who would always wear gallons of that nasty perfume, so when you and I had to sit behind her in the pews we’d always sneeze. Even now, after all I’ve done, those crooked childhood memories still make me shun the word.

I know I've lied about so many things these past few months, with plenty of half-truths and misdirection sprinkled in for good measure. But I'm not begging forgiveness, and I'm not trying to absolve any guilt. I just want to set the record straight and maybe get some things off my chest before it's too late. There’re a couple consciences I know I need to ease. Maybe this is a confession.

Damn.

I wish this was a different sort of letter, the kind where I tell you about some fantastic house I visited, or the queer people I’ve met in this business. I know you never get tired of my Steve stories, and you wish, sometimes, that all my stories would make their way to Steve. In your last letter, you even said you wished you could meet him, even if it was just because you don’t believe I wasn’t making him up. Well, that wish is about to come true, ‘cause in a roundabout way, this is about Steve. And I’m going to need you to meet him.

I need you to set him right about something: Something he was so close on, so close to, so close it was right in front of him, but he just couldn't see it because he was too close, and that little smartass had convinced himself loved me.

And god damn it, I loved him too. 

By now, you’ll have probably gotten a good deal of the story from the papers, but I doubt you or anybody else have any idea just how far up in it I was. I’m sure you have lots of questions right now, Becca. There are questions I have too, ones I'll likely never get an answer to. I don't know if they've arrested Calusky, or what they've arrested him for if they have. I don't know what's happening with Kate, if she's alright. I don't know if they've finally put two and two together. It's likely they haven't; at least, not all the way.

Steve was doing alright in there for a while. He said it wasn't an accident. Check. He said it wasn't suicide. Check. He said it was murder.

Check.

Steve thought he had it all figured out. And he did pretty damn good, the little punk. Every clever little trick he saw right through. He'd worked out the details like he’d thought of them himself. He had the method down pat, almost perfect. He hit his snag right after though. When it came to picking the murderer, he picked the wrong guy!

You want to know who killed Derek Bishop?

I did.

Me: James Buchanan Barnes.

I did it for two reasons, neither of which seem important now, 'cause I didn't get the money, and I didn't get the girl. All I got for my troubles was what folks call “life experience”, and a sharply declining amount of time to experience life.

I've learned a lot about myself and a lot about the world these past few months. I learned I'm clever enough to get into trouble, but not clever enough to get away with it. I learned Murray’s sells four different kinds of baby formula. I learned the best detectives in the world are in the insurance business. I learned what a man sounds like when he dies. And I learned that murder can sometimes smell like honeysuckle. 


	2. Chapter 2

It began last March. I was in Glendale, finishing up some policies on a couple of dairy trucks, when I remembered this renewal over in Hollywoodland I'd been meaning to get to. It was only a twenty-minute drive away and I was feeling confident about my abilities as a salesman, so I decided to pop over there and see if I couldn't put that confidence to good use.

Funny, isn't it? Just how much harm a little misplaced confidence can lead to.

Hollywoodland is a neighborhood perched on the southern facing slopes of Mount Lee. The houses themselves are on the low end of ritzy, but the view is you get just walking to the front door more than pays for the high property taxes. The homes are built in a variety of styles, from Storybook to Normandy to Mediterranean. You could walk by a Tudor style house with a full rose garden in front, and next pass a trendy Spanish style dig with its own personal grove of palm trees. I always felt the development looked a mess, but even as a mess it sure looked expensive.

It was one of those newfangled Spanish style houses, one that wasn't so much nestled into the surrounding hillside as it was pushed into it. I’m sure by now the newspapers have slapped some sensationalist title on it: “Murder Mansion”, perhaps, or “House of Death”. It didn't look like a House of Death to me, not back then. Just a big house: white walls, red roof, garage under the first floor, stairs to the front door, stone lions guarding the driveway, pool in the back; the kind of house people would kill to live in.

I parked and walked up the stone steps to the door. I rang, and a rusty old hen poked her head out.

“Who're you?”

“Hello there,” I said. “My name is James Barnes. Is Mr. Bishop in?”

“What’s your business with Mr. Bishop?”

“Personal.”

She eyed me warily and pursed her lips. “If you’re selling something,” she started, but I didn't let her finish. I pushed the door just open enough for me to show myself inside.

“Look, honey, is he here, or isn't he? I've got business with him. It’s very important.”

“Well, he isn't here.”

“‘ _Well_ ’, when do you expect him back?”

She put her hands on those corn-fed hips of hers and said, “He’ll get here when he gets here, if that's any help to ya’.”

I was just about thinking I’d run out of luck when I was saved by the voice of an angel, or so it seemed at the time. How should I have known what a siren sounds like?

“Who is it, Miriam?” called out a husky contralto.

At the top of the staircase behind a wrought iron railing stood the most beautiful dame I've ever seen. Even from afar I could see she had a sultry face of delicate perfection, the kind that could break your heart with nothing but smile. Her rusty hair was curled to last year's fashions and the tips of it were hiding just behind her shoulders. A half-smoked cigarette was held incautiously between two fingers on her right hand. She was wearing nothing but red lipstick and a washed-out blue towel she had wrapped around herself.

“Good evening, Ma'am,” I said. “Name’s James Barnes. I'm from Stark's All Risk Insurance. I'm looking for Mr. Bishop.”

“I'm Mrs. Bishop. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“It's about the renewals on your automobiles, Mrs. Bishop. The insurance will run out on the 28th. I'd hate to think of you getting a smashed fender while you’re not,” I cleared my throat, “fully covered.”

Her gaze seemed glued to me, and she smiled a bit with only the corners of her lips. “Miriam,” she said, eyes still locked on mine, “show Mr. Barnes into the living room. I'll be down in a minute.” She turned and disappeared from the top of the staircase.

Miriam frowned, but directed me to the living room with dramatic flick of the wrist. “It's just through there.”

I'll admit my “Thanks” erred on the side of smug.

As I showed myself to the living room she called after me.

“They keep the liquor cabinet _locked_!”

The living room looked like it came straight off the department store floor. It was the kind of living room social climbers bought to impress their friends and neighbors, and nobody bought on account of because they liked it. The furniture was pretty but stiff. On the wall was a print of Matisse's _Woman with a Hat_ that had been cut to fit the frame. The air was stuffy, the windows shut, and the sunlight coming in though the venetian blinds showed off all the dust in the air. The liquor cabinet was wooden with large, reflective panes of glass on the doors and, as promised, it was locked. There was a Spanish style fireplace set between the windows on the wall opposite the entrance. The curtains were red. On one side table was a bowl of little, yellow goldfish, and on another were framed pictures of Mr. Bishop, a young, leggy brunette, a younger boy holding a football, and a pretty, raven-haired woman who wasn’t Mrs. Bishop; at least, not the one I'd seen at the top of the staircase. I could still smell last night's cigars, and I could almost taste the scotch that went with them on the back of my tongue.

About ten minutes later I heard footsteps as Mrs. Bishop came down the stairs and into the living room. She was still adjusting the tie on her pale blue bathrobe. The bathrobe had a black “N" embroidered onto the breast pocket. Her legs and feet were bare. “There. Didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?”

I cleared my throat and forced myself to retain my decorum. “Not at all, Mrs. Bishop.”

She caught sight of her reflection in the glass panes of the liquor cabinet and stopped to wipe away a smear of her lipstick from the corner of her mouth. “I hope I put myself together alright. I'm not used to company so early in the day.”

“You're perfect, for my money,” I mumbled.

She turned. “Barnes, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Insurance, you said?”

“Right again.”

“I afraid I don't know much about insurance. My husband never tells me anything.” She began walking over to the fireplace. The bright citrus of her perfume smelled almost like gasoline. “I’m sorry he’s out,” she continued, “especially since you came all this way just to see him. But I'll do what I can to help, Mr. Barnes.”

Truth be told, I didn’t think she could be much help to me, at least not in conventional sense, but I wasn’t about to let her know that. I wasn’t sorry at all that her husband was out. I do some of my best work when the husband isn't around. Men with lovely, lonely housewives are some of my best customers. You wouldn’t believe what some women will do for the idle attention of a pretty face.

The bathrobe was a new one on me, though. Something about her wearing it – the way she wore it – made me hesitant. I wondered why she was wearing it, and what she was wearing underneath. Her indifference to convention left me wary but intrigued. It made her seem exciting and forbidden. It made her seem a little dangerous.

Facing off against the fireplace was a big, off-yellow davenport, and between the two of them was a dark coffee table. On the coffee table there was a tray with glasses, a wooden ice bucket, and a decanter full of an amber-colored liquor. She picked up a glass and the decanter.

“Brandy?”

“No, thanks.”

She shrugged and poured some for herself. When her glass was two fingers full, she put the decanter back on the table. She looked at me. “Alright, let’s go out back.”

“Out back?”

She was already walking away. “To the pool. I was about to go sunbathing. I don't intend to change my plans just ‘cause you rang the bell.”

I could think of several objections but no complaints, so I did as I was told.

I followed her back out into the hall and through the house. We came to a heavy door and went through. Stone steps led down to rectangular pool with stone lions in the corners. The pool took up most of the left half of the backyard. The rest of the yard was a curated garden and lawn that someone professional obviously looked after. There were roses and orange lilies in patches along the dappled sunlight of the yard. The fence was covered in some sort of thick, flowered vine. It would have looked swell on a magazine cover.

On the wide stone tiles surrounding the pool was a bunch of green, iron patio furniture: small tables, chairs, and a matching lounger. When we reached them, she motioned, inviting me to sit. She took the lounger. One hand put her drink on the little patio table next to the chair while the other took a pair of sunglasses out of the initialed pocket and put them on her face. Then she took off her bathrobe.

Underneath was a little black swimming costume that showed off a fantastic figure. Mrs. Bishop was slender but not slim, like she still had a little leftover baby fat. She was what polite folks called “petite” and the blunt ones called “short”. She had a few moles speckled on her arms and on the tops of her thighs. Having her so exposed and on display to me was very distracting.

She grabbed her drink from the table.

“So,” she said, settling down in the lounger, “you said that one of our insurance policies is running out?” Her red hair swayed slightly in the breeze.

It was hard to focus on her question and not her figure. It was a nice figure, too. Her peaches and cream complexion was on full display, and I was almost sorry she was ruining it with a sunbath.

“Yes, Mrs. Bishop, your collision insurance on your two cars: the LaSalle and the Plymouth. I’ve been trying to reach your husband at his office for the past two weeks, but I haven’t been able to get ahold of him.”

“That sounds like my husband.”

“Could I catch him at home?”

“You could try, but he isn’t in much before seven and he doesn’t like to be disturbed after eight-thirty.” She sipped her brandy. “How long do we have before we can’t renew?”

“I can give you thirty days past the 28th, but that’s all I’m allowed to give.”

She nodded to herself. Then she turned her head to face me.

“You’re a smart insurance man, aren’t you, Mr. Barnes?”

“I try to be.”

“You know lots about insurance?”

“Enough to make a living.”

She bit her lip. “Could you explain some of it to me, about our policies?” She rolled onto her side, facing me. “I do feel I ought to know about these things.”

 “I could, but I’d hate to take up your time.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I’ve got nothing but time.”

“Time's important.”

The curve of her hips, the shape of her breasts, and the glisten of sweat on her skin were all on full display. And I had a front row seat. “Not to me.”

I acquiesced. “All your insurance policies, or just the automobile insurance?”

“We can start there.”

I started describing the latest indemnity package for collision, telling her all about the deductibles and discounts and retentions, knowing she wasn't really understanding a word I said. She listened intently behind her sunglasses, nursing her brandy until it was gone. Then she put the glass on the little patio table and laid back in her chair.

“What about the Automobile Club?” she asked. “I heard that was cheaper.”

“Is your husband a member?”

“No, he isn’t.” She began playing with her nails. “But he’s been considering them.”

“Well, then he’ll have to pay an entrance fee and the membership fee to start with, along with the premium itself, but he’ll get quality collision insurance and a better rate.”

“But with the other fees…” she trailed off and gave a short, quiet trill, almost without meaning to. “It all comes out in same in the end, doesn’t it?”

I learned very early in my career to not knock the competition. If you have to tear down your rival to sell yourself, you’ve got nothing to sell. “You could say that. I won’t play you, Mrs. Bishop. The Automobile Club’s fine. I can do just as well for you though.”

“For car insurance.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And your company covers the other types as well?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bishop.”

She put her hands in her lap and looked at me. “What sort of insurance does my husband carry with your company?”

I checked my notes. “Just the usual, Mrs. Bishop: Automobile, fire, theft, and public liability for his business. Oh— and life insurance.”

“Life insurance?”

“Yes, a $15,000 policy.”

There was a pause.

“Do you—” she hesitated. A bead of sweat rolled from her neck into the cleavage of her suit. “Could you possibly tell me who the beneficiary is?”

This time the pause came from my end.

The soothing words came tumbling out of her, falling to the ground and landing with dead weight. “I only mean— it’s just he doesn’t tell me anything. I was only curious. It’s alright if you can’t tell me.”

“No, no,” I said cautiously, trying to keep my sudden unease from her. “It’s fine, Mrs. Bishop. I can look that up.” I looked at my notes again. “According to my records, the beneficiary of your husband’s life insurance is a Katherine Bishop, listed as his daughter.”

She nodded and seemed unsurprised.

“Well, at least if the worst should happen, your daughter will be set up well.”

“Kate is not my daughter,” she said. She quickly shifted the topic back to insurance.

She kept talking and asking questions, about her husband’s other policies and about insurance in general. She asked me about the Automobile Club a couple more times. She kept talking me around in circles, like someone who doesn't really know what she's talking about and doesn't particularly care for the topic, but desperately doesn't want the conversation to end.

Throughout the conversation her perfume had shifted and had begun to wrap itself around me and seep into my skin. A powdery, rosy peach took over, and while it was warm and softly spiced, you could sense something dry and serious was lurking just below the surface.

We kept talking. We talked for over an hour. I began to get concerned that she’d get herself a sunburn. It would be a shame to mar such a beautiful complexion. Somewhere near the hour mark I decided that I’d been silly earlier, when she'd been curious about her husband's life insurance. He was her husband, wasn’t he? And it was a large policy. Why shouldn’t she be curious? I'd been curious and I barely even knew the guy.

She had one of her legs – the one closer to me – dangling off the side of the lounger and was swinging it rather absentmindedly. She was wearing a honey of an anklet on it. I couldn't help but be repeatedly drawn to it.

“I wish I knew what was engraved on that anklet.”

She gave me a queer sort of considering look. “Just my name.”

“How's about a for instance?”

“Natasha,” she replied.

“Natasha,” I said, tasting how it felt on my lips. “I think I like that.”

She raised a thin brow in response. “But you aren't sure?”

“I’ll have to think it over.”

“Perhaps it would be best if we all thought some things over.” She made a big show of getting out of her chair. “I'd certainly like to talk to my husband before I make any promises on who he'll sign with. Do you work weekends? That's the best time to catch him at home.”

I got up as well. I realized just how much I didn't want this afternoon with Natasha to end. There was something about the way she listened to me, the attention she hung on my every word. It was addictive. I didn’t want to the shine in her grassy green eyes to gleam at anything – anyone – else. And then there was the way she wore that anklet.

“What if I don't want to catch your husband at home?”

She raised a brow at me, but there was no surprise in her voice. “Isn't that why you came over here today?”

“Yeah, but maybe I've changed my mind. Maybe I've decided I like you better.”

She looked at me for a moment or two, then replied. “There's a speed limit in this town, Mr. Barnes. Be sure to observe it. We wouldn't want you to break your neck.” She began walking back to the foyer. “Come back Saturday at eight. We'll be through dinner then.”

I followed her to the door. “Will you be there?”

She opened the door and turned back to me. “I guess so, I usually am.”

“Same anklet, same perfume?”

“I wonder what you mean by that, Mr. Barnes.”

I threw her one last smile. “Good day, Natasha. See you Saturday.”

I walked down to my car. It was a hot afternoon, the kind that makes you feel sleepy, but I felt jittery and excited. Everything about her seemed like a dream. Even the air smelled divine. I turned back and saw why. The house was lined with honeysuckle shrubs and they were beginning to bloom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve will make his first appearance next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **TRIGGER WARNING: Period-Typical Racist Language  
> **  
>  Bucky refers to Dave, an African American man, as "colored" on two occasions.

I walked into the lobby of the office building feeling like a million. I wasn’t at all put off by Natasha’s cold kiss off. When a dame’s aces like that and knows it, more than the usual sort of effort is always going to be required. And I was willing to bet Natasha knew just how aces she was. She wasn’t dizzy just yet, but I knew I’d be seeing her again. I was so caught up in the idea of her I had it in my mind to go straight to my office and do more research on the Bishop file. Maybe I’d find some clause that would let me give them an extra deduction, something like that.

Connie caught me just before I got on the elevator. “There you are, Bucky!”

Connie is our receptionist. Any visitor to our building is immediately greeted a pair of brown eyes warmer and more invigorating than the finest cup of joe in all of California. She has a baby doll face, a voice like Snow White, and while she's got a personality like sour candy, it's Cadillac quality. She's the kind of girl who collects teddy bears but owns a Rottweiler. The Rottweiler’s name is Archie. She flirts with me, looks out for me, and refuses to marry me.

“Missed me, Doll?”

“Oh, stop that. You haven't got the time.”

“You mean…”

She nodded. “He’s been yelling his head off for you all afternoon.”

“Has he begun frothing at the mouth or do I have time to check my mail?”

She ignored me and continued. “He's been snapping his cap over something about arson. I believe the words ‘moron', and ‘fat-head', and 'when that stupid jerk shows his ugly mug, get him to my office and I don't care if you have to drag him in by his ears' were all tossed around.”

“Were all those words tossed around in that particular order?”

“I may have embellished a bit.”

I smiled and began taking off my coat.

“Where’ve you been anyhow? You've been gone for hours.”

“The life of an insurance agent is a wild affair, Doll.”

“Uh huh. Break anymore hearts today?”

“No more than my fair share.” I shrugged my coat off and handed it to Connie. “I'm glad to get that off. It's hot today. The last place had a pool, and I almost asked for a swim.”

“You swim, Bucky?”

“Almost as well as I make love.”

“You'll drown.”

“Marry me, Connie.”

“Soak your head, Buck.”

I laughed and gave her my hat. I got in the elevator and pressed for the second floor.

Our building is three levels, with the two upper floors cut away in the middle to make what I’m told is an “atrium”. We sales agents and the other members of the Agency department all have offices on the second floor, along with the twelve blokes who make up the Audit, Actuarial, and Claims departments. The offices are all along the exterior wall, fenced in by a neat wooden balustrade, as the floor opens in the middle to overlook the various departments on the floor below. The first floor has the Administration, Accounting, Marketing, Reinsurance, and Maintenance departments, along with about 30 girls nestled together in the middle doing all their typing for them. The Investment, Loss Control, Underwriting, and Legal Departments are on the floor above us, with the Executives. Steve reads heavily into the symbolism of this.

Steven Grant Rogers is a vicious bull terrier wearing a tiny human suit. He’s blond, bird-boned, and asthmatic. He’s five foot three and can almost weigh a hundred-twenty pounds when he forgets to take his change out of his pockets. He thinks of himself as the last, lone soldier valiantly defending the fort of our firm, though the door to his office merely reads “Claims Manager”. He’s great at his job, because he’s a stubborn little shit who is determined to prevent the “bullies” and “cheaters” from gaming the system. He’s notoriously detail-oriented, to the point where he can barely say ‘it’s Tuesday’ without checking his calendar, and then cross-checking his calendar with the World Almanac calendar. He does his own typing, mostly ‘cause he’s currently the only man working in the Claims department. I don’t know why he insists on everyone still referring to him as the Claims ‘Manager’, except to stick it to Mr. Stark.

Steve is usually in some sort of dispute with various other departments, but the feud between him and Mr. Tony Stark, the president of the firm, is eternal. Steve was hired by Howard Stark, the former president of the firm, and quickly worked his way up the company ladder to his current position in no small part due to the older Stark’s partiality to him. Make no mistake, Steve earned his position. But anyone who wasn’t Howard Stark would have canned him the first day.

About two years ago, Howard Stark retired from his position at the firm in order to focus on his industrial side-business, which mostly functions as a tax-deductible playroom where he can tinker around with his so-called “inventions”. He named his only child, Anthony Stark, as his successor at the firm.

Tony Stark has what is easily one of the world’s most tiresome personalities. There should be a ranking of high society playboys who you’d most want to sock after five minutes in their presence, if only so Tony could win something all on his own for once and shut the hell up. Even Connie will sometimes refer to Stark as ‘President Sourpuss’. You’d think being engaged to newspaper heiress Christine Everhart, one of the prettiest, richest girls in the state, would give Tony Stark something to smile about, but you’d be wrong. Office gossip is that the Starks spent most of their father-son time in their workshop, leaving the younger Stark with the impression that the Stark’s small, industrial side-business was what he was being groomed to take over. There’s no doubt that Tony Stark doesn’t want and has never wanted to run an insurance firm. It’s common knowledge that Tony Stark knows and cares more about playing with his toys and his rivalry with Rogers than he does about his company and the insurance business.

The way Steve tells it there isn’t a thing Tony Stark can do right, and the few things he does get right Howard would have managed so much better. Rumor is that much of the younger Stark’s feud with Steve stems from his resentment over his father thinking so much more highly of Steve than he does him. This has resulted in Stark pettily trying to make Steve’s job as hard as possible, though to his credit he stops at anything that would prompt Steve to quit, ‘cause even Stark knows how important Steve is to the company. New Claims personnel never last long, not with Stark breathing down their necks, though Steve himself does enough fussing and hollering himself to scare them away. The only reason Steve got his last pay raise was because Stark’s secretary, Pepper, had a great row with Stark on Steve’s behalf. Everyone knows Stark will do what Pepper tells him to, and everyone pretends they don't know it’s ‘cause he's screwing his secretary.

As I approached Steve’s office, I had a good idea that if all the fuss wasn’t about Stark directly, it would come around to being about Stark. I wasn’t looking forward to what had got Steve so riled up, but I figured I might as well bite the bullet. I opened his door and went in.

Seated in Steve’s office were three men: a Russian, a Mexican, and a colored man. I’d written an automobile policy for the Mexican, Luis, about six months earlier. He and his two friends had an insect extermination business but were waiting for some third friend to get out of the can before they got the business rolling. I remembered them vividly, and in an instant had a good idea what all this trouble was about.

Steve himself was behind his desk, pacing. He stopped when he saw me. “Barnes, how nice of you to join us. You remember these gentlemen, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Hello, Luis.”

Luis smiled brightly. “Oh, hey man!”

“Gentlemen,” I said to the other two. I moved to stand behind Steve, by the window. “How’s the van?”

“Van not so good,” said the Russian.

“It blew up,” said Luis. “Went ‘boom’. There was a lot of fire and flying glass. We’re lucky to be alive.”

“Or so we assume, because we were definitely nowhere near the van at all that day,” threw in the colored man.

Luis elbowed him and hissed, “Dave!”

“Listen here, you jokers,” Steve interrupted. “You boys are in a jam.”

“Says you,” replied Dave with arms crossed.

“Yeah,” said Luis. “All we want is our money.”

“Any money anyone gets from this company they go through me, so I suggest you boys pay close attention to what I’m about to say,” Steve said. “Everyday hundreds of claims come across my desk. Most are real, and I have no issue approving those. But some of those claims are phonies, and I know which ones. Do you know how I know?”

The three of them shook their heads.

“My little man tells me.”

Dave and Luis looked at each other nervously. The Russian looked confused. “What little man?” he asked, glancing around as though he expected the little man to pop out from behind a potted plant at any minute.

“My little man! He lives in here,” said Steve, pressing against his sternum.

“He’s… inside you?” asked Luis. “Like nesting doll?” asked the Russian.

Steve ignored them and continued. “When a phony claim hits my desk, my little man won’t let me sleep! He won’t let me eat!”

“Sounds like indigestion, my man,” said Dave.

Steve, immune to wisecracks after so many years in this business, went on. “He kicks up a fuss on every phony claim, and yours was one of them. So, do you know what I did?”

“No,” Luis answered earnestly while Dave shook his head. “I still do not understand ‘little man’ business,” mumbled the Russian.

“I took a trip down to your garage with some boys from the lab,” said Steve. “And we took a good look at that van.”

“You let them examine the van?!” hissed Luis to his associates.

“Of course!” said Dave. “Van on fire. What is harm?” agreed the Russian.

Luis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because,” he whispered to his friends, “they can still _find_ things even when they’re burnt.”

“You couldn’t have told us that earlier?” Dave whispered back loudly. “You’re terrible boss,” whined the Russian.

“What I found,” Steve said, to three men who were now looking very sheepish, “was a neat little pile of shavings under the front passenger seat, and excessive traces of gasoline all along what was left of the interior of that van.”

“I don’t know nothing about no wood shavings,” Dave said assertedly.

“How can you not remember wood shavings?” asked the Russian. “I have still splinters.”

“Kurt!” Luis hissed through his teeth. For a second, Kurt looked at his friend with an expression of pure confusion, and then reality dawned on him. Luis turned his attention back to me and Steve. He groaned and began rubbing his stomach. “My friends,” he said. “I don’t feel so good. I think I’d better be going.”

“I feel not so good as well,” added Kurt, looking like he’d swallowed a dozen eggs.

Dave shrugged and said, “I feel fine.”

Luis shook his head in an annoyed despair and got up, his two associates in tow.

“Hold on,” said Steve just before they got to the door. “Before you all leave, one of you wombats needs to sign this.”

“What is it?” asked Dave.

“It’s a waiver on your claim,” replied Steve. “You can sign this, or I can call the district attorney and a public defender down here and we can discuss plea deals. Personally, I’d rather you just sign the waiver. It makes less paperwork for me. Come on now, take the pen.” Luis walked dejectedly back to Steve’s desk. He took the pen from Steve and scribbled his name at the bottom of the waiver. “There you go, Luis,” said Steve, “You and your associates are honest men again.”

They left, loudly whispering. They were already plotting their next scheme.

When they were gone, Steve turned on me and roared. “What’s the idea selling a policy to a bunch like that? Can’t anyone see they’re going to try something smart? Or are you all just counting on me to clean up your messes for you?”

“Hold on just a minute there, Steve, I don’t rate this beef! I distinctly remember clipping a memo to that application six months ago when I sent it in, saying I thought these fellows should be thoroughly investigated before we accepted the risk.”

“I know you did, Bucky, I’m not beefing at you. I’ve got your memo right here.” Steve was still yelling. “It’s not you I’m mad at. It’s everyone else: the way they do things, the way they don’t do things. They have no sense!"

That’s Steve in a nutshell. Even when he wants to be nice to you, he still had to make you sore at him first.

“They’ll approve anything just to get it down on paper. They’d sell life insurance to a half-witted lion tamer who bathes in beef broth, just so they could mark it down as a sale! If other men here would show half the sense you do, this company’d be in much better shape.”

Steve paused to grab some papers from his desk and shake them at me.

“They were going to pay those jokers. Even with your memo, and my suspicions, and all the red flags those idiots were practically dressed in, if I hadn’t raised hell with Stark and then brought that tow truck down to the garage on my own dime, they’d have paid them. One of the most incompetent cases of insurance fraud I’ve seen in years, and they almost got away with it, just because Tony doesn’t want to affect our company’s efficiency. Efficiency, my ass! What Tony wants is not to be bothered with things like fraudulent claims or rejected claims or questionable risks, because Tony just wants to sit in his office and play with his toys and mope about how his father doesn’t ‘respect’ him enough. You know, Bucky, if Tony were a tenth of the man Howard is…”

As I predicted, a ten-minute rant on the shortcomings of Tony Stark followed. I let Steve make his cracks. I even genuinely agreed with some of them. But I was careful not to let Steve think I was taking sides. Stark’s got skin like a balloon, and the fact of the matter is that Tony Stark was the man we had to do business with, so there was no sense in letting Steve get me in dutch with Stark by pulling me into his and Stark’s feud. When it appeared Steve was running out of breath, I picked up one of his asthma cigarettes from his desk and lit it for him. He took it and sat down in his chair. I lit myself one of my own and we sat quietly, just smoking, for a minute or two.

“Where've you been all afternoon, anyways?” he said when he broke the silence. His cigarette still smoked between his fingers. “I would have liked to have had you there for the waiver meeting from the start.”

“I was in Glendale around noon, finishing up Mr. MacMurray’s policies on his dairy trucks.”

“New client?”

“Yeah, and a swell guy too. He shared his lunch with me when he saw his wife had packed him an extra hard-boiled egg. That's his lunch everyday, he says. He never gets tired of them. Your little man won’t raise a fuss over him.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“And then sometime before two I swung over to Hollywoodland. There’s a Mr. Bishop who has a collision package that’s due to expire on the 28th.”

“Did he renew?”

“The husband wasn't in.”

“Oh, I see. I'll tell the girls in Filing to expect a massive new policy.”

I laughed. “Struck out with her, actually.”

“Well,” said Steve. “I guess it does snow down there.”

“I've been rejected twice today, Stevie. I'm in a slump.”

“Twice?”

“Connie's still refusing to marry me.”

“Good,” said Steve drily. “That means there's still at least one person in this office with their head on straight.”

Suddenly, Steve sat up, stubbing out his cigarette in his ashtray. “Actually, that reminds me: there’s something I really wanted to talk to you about. Bucky,” he said, hands folded on top of his desk. “How'd you like to make a dollar less an hour?”

“How'd you like to take a swim in a dumpster?”

“I'm being serious, Bucky.”

“So am I!”

“I wasn’t kidding earlier when I said I get hundreds of claims across my desk. It’s a lot to ask of a guy who’s by himself. If I had some help, it would take a great load off my shoulders. I’m practically smoking half a pack of these cigarettes a day, and those suckers ain’t cheap.”

So that was it. He wanted me to transfer over to Claims. I could see how being the one man working Claims could get exhausting. It was a thankless job, really. If the client’s claim was approved, it was the sales agent who sold them the policy that got the credit in the client’s eyes. If the claim got denied, the Claims man was the bad guy.

I didn’t bite on Steve’s offer. I had no interest in giving up my sales position to become either ignored or loathed by all our clients. And working Claims with Steve could only put me more under Stark’s microscope. With as close as I was to Steve, I’d worked damn hard to keep out of Stark’s crosshairs. And then there was the money factor: On a technical point, Steve, and anyone else working Claims, makes more in salary than I or any sales agents. But when you factor in commissions, especially the kind of commissions I was pulling in, it was really the sales agents who got paid more. This was another sore spot of Steve’s.

“Maybe if you and Stark stopped competing to see who could scare away the most Claims personnel, you’d have some help.”

“Come on, Bucky, you’re wasted as a sales agent.”

“Gee, thank a lot!”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it. You’ve got the brains and the intuition for this department, and that combination comes along less frequently than you’d think.”

“That’s flattering Steve, but a dollar less an hour’s still a dollar less an hour. Besides, if I’m not out making my rounds, who’s gonna give all those lonely ladies a little company?”

“If you’d stop being smart for a second and just listen—” Steve closed his eyes and huffed. “Fine. You don’t want the job. It’s fine. I only offered you the job because I thought you’d like to do something more worthwhile with your talents, but I guess the money and the girls mean that much to you.”

“That, and I’d have to come in to see your stupid face every morning.”

“I don’t want to see your mug either, jerk.”

“And Dugan’s wife makes the best joe. I don’t think he’d share anymore if I transferred. I’d have to drink the mud you call coffee.”

“Get out of here before I throw my desk at you.”

I chuckled. “I love you, too, Stevie.”

I can’t tell you how many times since then I’ve wondered how different my life, and a couple of other lives, would be now had I said “yes” to Steve that afternoon.

When I got back to my office, I found I had half a dozen messages on my desk. I spent the next hour going through them, making my calls and adjusting my files. When it was finally five o’clock, I was looking forward to a bath and a beer. Just as I was packing up my briefcase my phone rang.

It was Connie, with a message from Mrs. Bishop.

Natasha didn’t want me to come Saturday anymore. She wanted me to come tomorrow afternoon, Thursday, at noon.

I had a lot of stuff lined up for that Thursday, including some high commission prospects I'd spent a good three months on so far.

“I'll be there,” I promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to Billy Wilder and Raymond Chandler, who wrote one of the greatest character introduction scenes in the history of cinema and then I went and stuck the Wombats in it and turned it into a joke.  
>   
> Updates will be a little slow to come, as next chapter is where the canon divergence starts to emerge.  
> Update 4/17: Chapter 4 is almost halfway done, but is reeaaaaally long. I should have it up in a few days.  
> Update 5/8: LOL. Chapter 4 is now over 5,000 words. But it is almost done. I'm just working on two transitions that I'm unsatisfied with.


	4. Chapter 4

It was a wet Thursday. I parked in front of the house and jogged up the steps to the front door, wishing I’d brought an umbrella. The rain diluted the scent of the honeysuckle bushes by the steps, but it hadn’t quite managed to drown them out.

I knocked. I smiled when Natasha opened the door moments later and eagerly welcomed me in. She took my hat and coat and laid them on a chair by the door. “I’ve set us up in the living room. I hope that’s alright.”

She was wearing blue again, a sweater this time with green slacks that suggested she knew exactly how nice a figure she had. She prattled as she led me back to the living room. She stood in front of the coffee table and motioned, inviting me to sit on the sofa.

I sat.

“I talked to my husband last night. He's still talking about the Automobile Club, but I think he’ll renew with you if he just gets the chance to sit down with you and talk it over. I thought he'd be here this afternoon to do just that.”

“And he isn't?”

She shook her head, all wide-eyed and innocent. “No.”

I played along with the scene.

“That’s too bad. I suppose I'll just have to get to know you a little better while we wait.”

“I'm sure he'll be here any minute. Do you want anything to drink?”

“A cold beer would be great if you’ve got it.”

“I’m sure we do. Derek usually has one with his lunch if he's home.” She called out, “Miriam!” and turned her attention back to me. “He promised me he would be here. I can’t think what’s holding him up. Miriam!” She called again, and then she acted surprised. “Oh, I forgot! It's Miriam’s day off.”

“Is it now?”

“Well, I can get that beer for you, if you’ll give me a minute. I was just fixing some iced tea.” She gestured to the coffee table.

The decanter was gone. In its place was a pitcher full of iced tea, a plate of lemon slices, and a small bowl of sugar. The glasses and ice bucket were still there.

“Don't bother with the beer. Tea will be fine.”

She sat down on the couch and prepared two glasses.

“Lemon? Sugar?”

“Fix it the way your husband likes it.”

“Don't get fresh,” she warned.

“Alright then: both, please. Double on the sugar.”

She gave me a look out of the side of her eye. “You got a sweet tooth?”

“When the company's right.”

She rolled her eyes but adjusted the neckline and the sleeves of her sweater. “I'm glad my company is to your satisfaction.”

She fixed me my glass and handed it to me. Even with the sugar it was bitter.

“You’re not British, are you?” I asked.

“Nope. I’m a native Californian.”

“Does that mean you’re really from Ohio?”

She laughed. “Something like that. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering where you picked up this tea drinking.”

“Oh, I acquired the habit from that little Chinese grocer over on Belden. Whenever I make chow mein I get my ingredients from him.”

“You know Mr. Yeung?”

“ _You_ know Mr. Yeung?”

“I’ve known him for years.”

Natasha smiled. “The first thing I did when I moved here was find a good Chinese grocer. When I was growing up, my mother would make chow mein at least once a month. That was something I intended to keep up once I was on my own.”

“You grow up by the tracks?”

“Yes, I did.” She looked like it wasn't something she cared to admit. “Did you?”

“Close enough. I take no shame in it. You learn a lot about life growing up on those sorts of streets, certainly more than you do in Claremont.”

She relaxed with a laugh. “I didn't think you could learn it from a correspondence course.”

“Did you keep up the chow mein tradition after you got married?”

“I’ve tried. My husband doesn’t care for it and of course Kate has to be a brat about everything I do. And after my mother died a year ago, I just haven’t felt up to making it.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother. Had she been ill?”

“Yes, terribly. It was a one-two punch of pneumonia and influenza.” She took a sip of her tea.

“Do you have any other family?”

“No. I was an only child, and my father died when I was fifteen.”

“What rotten luck. He get sick too?”

She shook her head. “Work accident, on the railway. My mother never told me exactly what happened. Those years were a little rough for Mama and I. Thank goodness my father had insurance. It wasn’t a lot, but it kept us from ending up in the poorhouse.” She added a little more lemon to her tea. “What about you, Mr. Barnes? Where do you come from?”

“New York. Brooklyn.”

“Do you have any family?”

“Just a younger sister. She still lives there.”

“What's it like having a sister?”

I regaled her with stories of our gritty childhood on the streets of New York. This turned into stories about the insurance business. She responded with stories about her encounters with the West Coast upper class. We talked about moving to Los Angeles. We discussed baseball, and where the best place to get a burger was. We talked about books; about those pulp novels you were always teasing me for. I even talked about Steve.

After an hour and a half, Natasha could no longer pretend that Mr. Bishop was coming. She played apologetic.

“I really thought he'd be here. He usually is on the maid's day off. I don't think he likes Miriam all that much.”

Dames can never get their facts straight, except for when they’re lying about everything. When everything is a lie it's easy to keep your story square. It’s when you start adding the truth that you gamble and risk running out of road: a sprinkling of honesty makes the lie seem truer, but that makes it harder to remember where the lie ends and the truth begins.

Natasha wasn't lying about everything, just the important stuff. She knew what she wanted and had gone to some effort to get it. Now it was practically in her lap. All she had to do was reach out and take. But still she hesitated.

I decided to force her hand.

“Well, I probably should get going.”

Her hand shot out to grab my arm. “One last question before you go?”

“Alright. Shoot.”

“Do you make commission on every policy you sell?”

“I do. Why do you ask?”

“I thought I might throw a little more business your way. Mr. Barnes—”

“Make it 'Bucky', will you?”

“Alright.” She smiled at me. “ _Bucky_. I wanted to ask you: Does my husband carry accident insurance?”

“Not with us. Does he need it?”

“He runs a mining company.”

“But he’s an executive, right?”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter to him. He’s right down there in those tunnels and blast zones with his crews.”

“Does his company carry anything on him?”

“Not that I know of.” She grimaced. “It’s got me worried sick. My mother and I only survived financially because of my father's accident insurance. We'd have been ruined without it.”

“Why don’t I bring a policy for him to look at next time? I can talk him into it.”

She laughed hollowly. “You can try. He’s so stubborn. And he isn’t likely to think he needs it, since he already has his life insurance, but all that goes to that daughter of his. I’d bet my favorite hat his will leaves her with most of the estate as well. If something should happen to him, she’ll be fine, but I’ll be in the gutter! Sometimes I don’t think he cares for me at all!”

I kissed her. Within seconds her hands were everywhere: in my hair, rubbing my chest, touching my knee.

Eventually, words came out again.

“I liked you the whole time.”

“You did?”

“Of course, silly, that's why I kept teasing you about the Automobile Club. That's why I let you watch me sunbathing when you were talking your insurance. Did you think I do that for every salesman who comes to my door?”

“I don't believe it.”

“I’ll show you.”

For the next few minutes, we weren’t much into talking. She was too busy mapping out my jawline with her lips, and I was too busy finding out how soft her sweater was, and how the skin under it was even softer.

“Bucky,” she said in a low, husky whisper, “I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

“You that crazy about me, Baby?”

“We’ll talk. We’ll see.”

“We’re talking now.”

“Let’s not. Not when your lips could be on mine. Not when your hands could be under my sweater again.”

“Like that?”

“Like that.”

We kept kissing, each of us fighting for dominance. I kept touching her under her sweater, and she began to rub one hand up my arm. She reached collar of my dress coat and began to pull it off.

“It’s not fair,” she said. “It’s not fair that you can touch me, but I can’t touch you. It’s not—”

She turned away suddenly.

I went to kiss her chin and she gently pushed me back. She was looking at her feet. We sat in silence for a minute as she rubbed circles into her right knee.

“I lost my head just now.”

“Not much.”

“Enough.”

“You sorry?”

“A little.”

“Don’t be: In the grand scheme if things, nothing much happened. Unless…”

“‘Unless’, what?”

“Unless you meant it.”

“Of course, I meant it! But I’m never going to mean it again.”

“You’re not?”

“No.”

“We ought to try again and see.”

“No, I love my husband, I really do. I just get lonely sometimes.”

I slumped rearward against the back of the sofa. “You really love him?”

She nodded. “More so lately.”

“Why lately?”

“Oh, worry.” She leaned over, resting her head on my shoulder. “Last month, his lead supervisor got hit in the face with a fly rock. He lost his eye.”

“Sounds nasty. Did he have insurance?”

“Not that I know of. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. All those explosives… It easily could have been my husband in that hospital bed— or worse! The worry’s been fraying my nerves. I can barely sleep.”

“Listen, Sugar, let me work your husband over. If anyone can get him to buy accident insurance, it’s me. I’ll bring my A-game.”

“I know you will, Bucky, but I was thinking: is there a way to get a policy on him without bothering him?”

That uneasy feeling I’d had when she first asked about his life insurance came rushing back to me. I should have known the first time she mentioned accident insurance. Accident insurance doesn’t get bought; it gets sold. It moves when the salesman wants to move it, and not a minute before.

She was still going. “Just something for my peace of mind. He wouldn’t have to know anything about it.”

“Why shouldn’t he know about it?”

She lifted her head and looked into my eyes. “Because he doesn’t want accident insurance. He’s superstitious.”

“Funny, so many people are.”

“There, you see!”

That was the whole problem: I did see. I saw it so clearly, I wondered how I hadn’t seen it coming, how I ever could have missed it.

She thought me a dope. So I let her have it straight in the heart.

“Sure, I got good eyesight. You want him to have the policy without him knowing about it. And that means without the insurance company knowing he doesn’t know about it.”

“You make it sound like a back-alley deal.”

“And then when some fly rock hits him in the head or a tunnel collapses, you’ll collect, and no one will be the wiser.”

“Please don’t talk like that.”

“That’s the set-up, isn’t it?”

She sat up, pushing away from me. Her brow was furrowed, and she had the most adorable confused look on her face. “Set-up?”

“Only it’s not going to be a tunnel or a rock, is it? It’s going to be a slip and fall by the pool, or a tumble over that railing on the stairs, or a closed garage with the car still running. That’s the idea isn’t it?”

“I— _What?!_ ”

“Look, Baby, you can’t get away with it.”

Confusion had yielded to a guilty sort of shock. “Are you— are you joking?”

“You know I’m not.”

“You must be crazy!”

“I’m not crazy. This is what you invited me over for. It’s all you’ve been thinking about all afternoon, isn’t it, Sugar?

Her face darkened. “I ought to slap your face.”

“And here I was just about to kiss you.”

She made good and slapped me.

Her face was rigid with a quiet fury. “I think you’re rotten.”

I got up, not bothering to hide my hurry. “I think I’m leaving.”

“Get out!”

“I’m going!”

I drove straight to the nearest bar and ordered a beer, breathing in the thick scent of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. I needed to get the bitter taste of her tea out of my mouth. I needed to numb the phantom sensations of her lips on mine. I needed to get the smell of her perfume out of my mind, and that damned scent of honeysuckle out of my nose.

I needed someone to talk to.

Los Angeles is a vicious place, even more so than New York, and desperately in need of a pandemic. Nobody really lives in Los Angeles. The people who live here claim to be from Los Angeles, but the truth is everybody's a stranger from out of town. Not even the palm trees were born here. It’s a beautiful, poisonous pit full of self-centered nobodies who all think they’re somebodies. Even when they’re building someone up, all they want is to tear them down and take their place.

Despite my charm and my socializing, I don’t really have any friends; at least, not any I could talk to the way I needed to talk to someone. The other boys in Sales are right palsy, but we aren’t discussing our intimate lives at the water cooler. Connie’s sweet, but she’s not really a friend. The only person I really have to talk to is Steve, and I certainly couldn’t tell him about what had happened. He would no doubt insist on being infuriating and sensible and would make me report it. I didn't see what good that would do anyone. I didn’t think Natasha would go through with it now that I was no longer a stranger.

I eventually paid the barkeep and drove back my building. When I got to my apartment, I opened _A Princess of Mars_ and another beer. I tried to lose myself in the fantastic cities of Mars. I wanted to lay my head on that yellow moss and never leave. But my mind kept wandering back to that afternoon. I couldn't help myself. I couldn't stop. The more I drank the more clear-headed I felt I was. By the time I was finished with the beer I no longer felt sorry for myself.

I’d socked it into her that I knew, and she’d thrown me out like an alley cat. We both knew the score. I wouldn’t say anything, Natasha wouldn’t do anything, we’d never see each other again. I washed my hands of the whole affair. I thought it was over.

 At about 8 o’clock that evening I heard the bell to my apartment ring. Even before I opened the door, I knew it was her.

Her feet and hair were wet from the rain, and she smelled like she'd drowned in a bottle of her perfume.

“Good evening, Mrs. Bishop. What brings you here?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I did.

She entered and stood awkwardly next to the couch as I closed the door.

“Let me get your coat.”

“Thanks.”

I helped her out of the black trench coat. I hung it on the rack next to the door.

“How’d you get my address?”

She was looking down at her wet feet. “You’re in the phone book.”

“Oh.” I suppose it was a silly question, but somehow, I didn’t want to associate her with anything as mundane as a phone book.

“My husband’s out until tomorrow morning. They’re installing a new drill or something. I told Kate I was going to a picture show.”

“And now you’re here,” I said. I walked back to stand in front of her. “What is it you want, Mrs. Bishop?”

“I want you to be nice to me.” She raised her head and gazed dewily into my eyes. “Don't you want to be nice to me? I want to be nice to you.”

“Mrs. Bishop,” I began, but she cut me off.

“Look, I’ve thought this afternoon over and realized that I said a few things that gave you a horribly wrong impression of me. I’m glad you warned me off them, because I easily could have said those things to someone else without realizing how they would be taken.”

We both knew my impression hadn’t been wrong, but I said nothing. I couldn't have even if I had wanted to. Despite the two beers I’d nursed since leaving her, my throat was dry. I felt as if I couldn’t make a sound.

My lack of a response seemed to make her more anxious. “I can tell you think badly of me right now, Bucky. I don’t want you to think badly of me.” She reached out and gently caressed my arm. “Do you— do you think we could go back to this afternoon, back to before I said those things, back to when I lost my head?”

I found it in me to speak. The words came out scratchy. “You know we can't. We can't ever go back. That was innocent fun, Baby, but that innocence is gone.”

“Were we ever innocent?”

I swallowed, trying to keep my throat from collapsing in on itself. I knew she was right. I’d spent enough time taking advantage of bored wives and their ten-cent troubles to deny it. It's terrible how the right person can make you realize the worst things about yourself.

“We were more innocent than this,” I tried.

“Are you sure about that?”

Her eyes were shining up at me like stars. Her teeth were timidly biting the rouge off her lips. Her perfume was swallowing me whole. The soft rosy, peach was gone, and in its place was darkness. The darkness smelled mossy and spicy, and like everything I’ve ever wanted. I said nothing, just inhaled and let myself lean towards her, closer and closer.

This time she kissed me.

We eventually broke away for breath.

“You want a drink?”

“Just something to stave off the cold.”

“All I've got is bourbon.”

“Bourbon's fine.”

I walked over to the kitchenette. She followed behind in a daze and watched listlessly as I got out the glasses.

“There was a woman in Culver City a few years ago. She and her husband ran a little burger joint on the edge of town. One night her husband fell in the bathtub. He hit his head and drowned. Only he had accident insurance, so she didn’t get away with it.”

Natasha said nothing.

“There was another dame down in Sherman Oaks. Her niece received a lethal dose of buck shot to the face: both barrels.”

“Sounds like a mean way to die.”

“She told investigators that the girl had accidentally shot herself while cleaning the gun. The girl had an accident insurance policy naming her aunt as the beneficiary. She also had a fiancé her aunt was in love with. The aunt tried to collect them both. All she collected was thirty years in Tehachapi.”

Natasha didn't turn her head, nor did she shift her gaze, and yet still her eyes went far away. “Maybe it was worth it to her,” she said quietly.

I turned to look at her. “I thought you said you loved your husband.”

“I did say that, didn't I?”

“Do you?”

She still wasn’t really talking to me when she replied, “Love is for children.”

I brought the drinks over to the couch and we both sat down. For awhile we didn't say anything, just sat and drank and let the silence do the talking for us.

Eventually she spoke.

“The other morning, I watched him gulp down his coffee. He takes it black and is always burning up at me because it doesn't taste right. He says it’s too bitter. He was particularly nasty about it that morning.” She took a sip of her bourbon. “But then he drank it down anyway in only a few minutes. I realized I could put something in it, something like warfarin, and he’d never know. He’d just yell at me for it being worse than usual.”

“Warfarin?”

“It's a rat poison. Miriam keeps some in the shed. It decreases coagulation of the blood. Theoretically, it should increase the effect the alcohol has on a person. And some nights he has quite a lot to drink. Actually, he often has quite a lot to drink.” She took another sip, a deeper one this time. “I can’t stop wondering: What if some morning I put warfarin in his coffee? Maybe on a morning when I knew that that evening both Miriam and Kate would be out? What if I let him get real top-heavy?”

“Then what? You hand him the keys and suggest he take a drive?”

“Actually, I was thinking I'd suggest we go swimming in the pool.”

“The swimming pool? Jesus, they’d have crucified you." About six or seven years ago, some well-meaning idiot put out a newspaper article claiming that most home accidents occur in the bathtub, and ever since then, bathtubs and pools are the first things anyone thinks of when they’re aiming to pull a fast one. Which is ironic, since in my experience, the stairs and the kitchen produce more legitimate accident claims than pools, tubs, and garages combined. “Look, we got a guy in Claims named Steve, and he’s spent more time thinking about how to bump someone off than most people who actually do it. Bump someone off, I mean. If you had accident insurance and tried to pull something slick, you wouldn't stand a chance, Baby. Within five minutes he'd know it wasn't an accident. Within the hour he'd have you under the lights, and before the body was even dry, he'd have you signing a confession.”

She nodded sadly. “I suppose in this business you’ve already thought of all these things.”

“Hadn’t thought of warfarin before. Where’d you learn about that?”

“I used to be a nurse. That’s how…” She gave an uncomfortable sort of trill. “That’s how I met my husband. I was one of the nurses who attended to his late wife when she was in the hospital.” She looked at me. “She had Pick’s. I met her when she was in the earliest stages, just weeks before their son died. I think that may have quickened the deterioration.” She looked back down into her drink. “Poor woman.”

She drank a bit more and was quiet for a moment. Her eyes were far-away again.

“He was so sweet. He used to sit with her for hours. He’d read to her, play with her. Sometimes he’d do nothing but just hold her hand. I’d never seen love like that before. So, when he started courting me after she died, I thought ‘ _Here’s my chance to have some of that myself._ ’”

“He’s got a bit of money as well, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” she sighed, “yes he has. Quite a lot, too. And I wanted a home. Is there anything so terribly wrong with that?”

“I suppose not.” I understood wanting security. I even understood loving someone despite who they’re not, especially if they come as a package deal with the right sort of bank account. “If you got what you wanted, why do you want out?”

“Because I didn't get what I wanted. I wanted a home and a husband who loved me. Instead I got a name on a sheet of paper and a jailer who never lets me do anything. The few friends I had before my marriage I’m not allowed to associate with anymore, because they’re not ‘our kind of people’. And the people in his tax bracket don’t want nothing to do with me, because to them I’m nothing but a gold-digger.” She took another drink and scowled. “He's so mean to me, Bucky. If I spend just a penny more than my allowance, I get a frosty lecture on budgeting. If I don't buy the cheaper soap, he throws a fit. Every time I buy a new dress, he screams his head off. He never lets me have anything.”

"Sounds rough, Baby."

She gave a dark, little chuckle. “And the funny thing is, I would have been fine with the either-or: The money or the man, as long as I got one of them. Instead, I got neither.”

“And you figure if he dies now, you’ll get nothing.”

“Nothing is what I'm worth to him.” She laughed to herself, a sick, tired laugh. “The last present he gave me was my wedding ring. The only one before that was the engagement ring, and that one doesn't count because he took it back after the wedding.”

I set my drink down. I watched the light dance of the rock on her left hand. It was a good-sized rock. Probably cost her husband at least a hundred bucks. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t seem to want to.

“Do you love your husband?”

She was quiet for a moment. “I did,” she said. “I don’t anymore.”

“Why not? What changed?”

“I realized he’ll never love me back, because he’s still in love with her.” A tear appeared at the corner of her eye. She quickly wiped it away. “He did try in the beginning, he really did, but. . .” Her voice trailed off and she gave a sad shrug.

“And now you figure he’s a lost cause.”

She nodded. “He’ll never love me. He doesn’t even love himself. The only person he loves is Kate.”

“The daughter, right?”

“Yes.” She replied with spite in her voice. “His darling daughter, Kate.”

“I take it the two of you don’t get along.”

“No, we certainly don’t.” She scowled. “She’s the prettiest sort of poison. Makes my life a living hell, but he gives her the world. She hates me for not being her mother. And Derek just lets her walk right over him to stomp on me, just because she’s all he has left of the family he actually liked.”

“Kate’s just a girl, right?”

“She’s twenty. But she’s always been a nightmare, even as a girl.” She took a sip of bourbon and shook her head. “Girls have sharp teeth, sharper than wolves. That was one of the first things I learned in St. Catherine’s.”

“That your school?”

“No, it was…” she cleared her throat. “St. Catherine's Orphan Asylum.” Her voice was small.

I straightened up sharply. “Orphan Asylum?! What happened to Ohio? And your mother who used to make chow mein?”

She had the decency to look shamefaced. “Those were lies before. Well— half-lies. I said them because I like you, and I wanted you to like me.”

“Do you really like me, or is it the bottle talking?”

“I do, Bucky, I really do.”

I searched her eyes. Unwavering verity shown in green.

I noticed her glass was empty. “Want another?”

“Yes.”

I threw back the rest of my bourbon. I took our glasses and refilled them. I walked back to the couch and offered hers back.

“Alright. Give me the truth now.”

She took her glass from my hand. She took a long drink.

“What I told you about my father was true,” she said. “He did work on the railway, and he did die in some work accident. I don’t know the details. I was very young. I barely remember him.”

“And did he have accident insurance?”

She nodded. “He did. It wasn’t a lot, though. Mama ran through it pretty quickly.”

She sighed. “Mama would go through these queer spurts. One minute we’d be broke, the next she’d sit me down at the table and tell me we’d earned a luxury and we’d have chow mein. It was a treat for being good while Mama was working.”

“What was your mother’s work?”

She looked down and bit her lip. “She had men over a lot," she said in a hushed voice. "She’d leave our little apartment several times a day, and she’d come back with a gentleman. They didn’t stay long. I was to remain quiet and out of sight.” She placed her hand on my knee. “You have to understand; my mother didn't speak English very well. She spoke well enough to buy groceries and hold a basic conversation, but she had a very heavy accent and had no real vocabulary beyond that of the average school child. Back in her mother city, she was considered educated and well-spoken, but here?” Natasha gave a sad shrug. “It was so hard for her to find respectable work.”

I gave Natasha's hand a reassuring caress. “So how'd you end up at St. Catherine’s?”

“One day she left the apartment and never came back. I never found out what happened to her.”

“How old were you?”

“I think I was about ten. The people who came for me took me to San Bernardino and dropped me off at St. Catherine’s. It was there that one of the Sisters taught me what a whore was. I can’t remember if she did it to be kind or cruel.”

She took another sip of bourbon.

“It wasn’t Dickens, but I pretended to forget it as soon as I could. The beds were hard, the food was bad, the affections were cold. The walls were red. There were over a dozen of us. We weren’t friends. You didn’t make friends in a place like that. None of us were happy to be there, and none of the sisters were happy to have us. The sisters used to tell me that all I’d ever amount to is a rich man’s pretty wife. I was determined to prove them wrong.”

“And?”

“And I did. For a while, at least. I worked hard, made my way through nursing school, and got a decent job at a hospital soon after.”

“And then you married the first man you fell in love with.”

“He wasn’t the first man I fell in love with.”

“He wasn’t?”

She shook her head, and her eyes went far away again. “No. There was another man, before: Clint.” She said his name with warmth. For the first time since she showed up at my apartment, she smiled. “I was very young. He was very poor. But it didn’t matter to either of us. It was the two of us against the world, and we thought we’d never lose.”

“So, how’d you end up with Bishop instead of him?”

“It was one of those stupid fights. He wanted to move in together, and I wanted to focus on my studies. They’d have kicked me out of nursing school if they found out I was living biblically with a man I wasn’t married to. And if I married him, well, good hospitals don't hire married women." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "If we had calmed down and put our heads together, we could have figured something out. But we were young and stupid, so we just screamed at each other. And then I left.” Her glass met her lips again. “He’s married now, with children. He’s happy. Still poor as dirt, but happy.” She sighed sadly. “That could have been me.” Her lower lip quivered.

“But I gave him up for my career. And then I gave that career up for a pocketbook that I’m not even allowed to touch. And I worked to the bone to show those sanctimonious eggbeaters they were wrong, and then I just…” She paused. “…let them be right.”

She looked into the bottom of her glass. “I deserve to be unhappy.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. I took her hand and stroked her knuckles with my thumb. “You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

She emptied her glass and set it in front of her. She didn’t look like she agreed with me.

“And you deserve better than bourbon,” I continued. “You deserve that pink wine, with the bubbles in it.”

“You’re such a sweet boy, Bucky.” She made a low, involuntary trill at the back of her throat and reached out to caress my cheek with her thumb. “Someday, someone is going to make you real happy.”

“What makes you think there's going to be anyone but you, Doll?”

“You do know my husband, I believe.”

“You'll divorce him. I may not have his sort of money, but we’ll make it work.”

“He'll never give me a divorce. He doesn’t believe in them.”

“Oh.” _Oh_. “That’s why…” I let the sentence hang.

“I don't want to kill him,” she said quickly and anxiously, “I never have.”

I followed the train of thought. “Only sometimes…” I began.

Quietly she finished. “Only sometimes I wish he were dead.”

She tried for a closed smile, but despite herself her face crumpled. I pulled her to me, and she buried her face in my neck, and then she started crying softly like the rain on the window.

We stayed like that for some time, and by the time she had extracted herself and left with her hat and coat, the rain had stopped.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say that the wait was strategic, that I was waiting for the Endgame backlog to die down, but really it just actually took me three weeks to finish this chapter. In my defense, this chapter's word count is over 5,200. Yowza.  
> I also spent way too long researching women's prisons in that area at that time, only to click on Tehapchapi's Wikipedia page and realize that I could have saved myself a lot of time by just watching the movie again. :/  
> If anyone's curious, Natasha's perfume is Mitsouko


End file.
